


Battlecry

by sihtos



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Soft Felix Hugo Fraldarius, annette being annette, but this is pretty sad, but..., i really honestly want them to be happy, i tried to experieent with my writing style a bit with this one, my heart was heavy while writing it, skinny skinny love, super super soft in this one, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 20:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21214568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sihtos/pseuds/sihtos
Summary: They reunite again while chasing daybreak, trying to survive in a war that demands their lives. There is no room for love in war. But even during war, cicadas cry and butterflies fly. They won't go down without a fight and with a battlecry.





	Battlecry

**Author's Note:**

> hey y'all! back with my third (and most favorite) lil single I've written yet! I binge wrote this in 24 hours and damn was it a fever dream. But worth it. This is another one of my lame attempts at poetic waxing. War just isn't pretty. Though I hope y'all like it!!!!

Felix’s hair is long.

She noticed this before she looked into his eyes, before she knew what his attire looked like. Before he casts fire beneath her cheeks like a mage, before he becomes the center of the magic circle that is her life, Annette knows that Felix’s hair is long.

Not that it wasn’t long before. It was just different now. Higher, looser, messier. Tousles so blue, they were almost black. Bangs swept over the side like the shadow of a waxing gibbous. <strike>Gorgeous </strike>Dangerous. Lethal. Wild.

Annette finds herself looking for that ponytail of his after their skirmish with the bandits. After all, she doesn’t know what the rest of him looks like, only got glimpses of his navy locks during battle, can barely remember how he looked before. These past five years were long, but his hair was longer. That much she knew.

<strike>She loved him</strike> She missed him. With everything she was.

Though the feelings were lost in translation over the years, much like the meanings of her songs, it did not defeat the fact that he was still someone precious to her. Felix talked to Annette in a way he did to nobody else, a little more attentive, a little more interested. He was bitter to everyone but sweet to her, always around to listen to her sing.

When Annette had difficulty cleaning, Felix was the one to help her push or pull her load. When he was upset with his performance on the battlefield, he’d go to her in need of a morale boost. When they had to separate when the war began, Felix would admit to missing her voice when he wrote to her.

It had always been there, that special kind of affection that meant so much, it was scary to put into words. <strike>Distance _does_ make the heart grow fonder.</strike> Annette could not compose the ballads nor come up with a melody that came anywhere near describing what they had.

The thought makes her sigh.

Amid the crumbling structures and fallen bodies, Annette reunites with some of her former classmates. They celebrate what little victory they have: finding each other and Dimitri and the Professor. Ill news of Dedue makes her stomach twist, but she does not lose hope. <strike>It’s gotten her this far.</strike>

It isn’t until she approaches the edge of the forest, somewhere between heaven and earth, when the first light peeks over the trees, she finally sees him standing there. Like a flower among weeds.

Bold and blue <strike>and beautiful.</strike>

: : :

Although she should be resting, Annette just can’t sleep. Being back at the monastery brings back too many memories. The nostalgia makes her wander over to the abandoned greenhouse, where she sings for the first time since the fall of Gerreg Mach.

Overgrowth infests the walls in the form of ivy, leaving no room for light. Moss covers pots and the edges of plant beds while weeds fester their way through the cracks. It is dim, far too dim for her liking, but a single ray of sun shines through near the entrance, where there is a hole in the roof.

She follows the radiant path like she would the Blue-Sea Star, breathing in the dank air along the way. The aroma of this place is both funky and enticing and Annette wishes she could catch the scent in a bottle. <strike>Maybe that was just her being too nostalgic </strike>No matter the reason, these thoughts were just keeping her company until she reached that sunlit spot.

It is perfect because Annette doesn’t have to venture further into the jungle that has become the greenhouse. It is also perfect because there lies a lone wildflower in that spot chosen by the sun.

The flora is small and dainty with petals that fall open in the shape of a bell. As if it wanted to hug her. Annette wonders how long it’s been here, blooming alone like this. It must’ve been very lonely <strike>as was she.</strike> Perhaps she could press it in a book for safekeeping.

Unintentionally, a hum begins to resonate from within her throat. Almost instinct. Annette is a simple being. When she sees something she likes, she hums. When she tries to get stuff done, she sings. When she does both at once, she dances.

Her hips sway a bit to the sound of the tune, trying to find its rhythm again after five years of disuse. It feels awkward, in a way. Like she’s become a stranger in her own body.

But it does not stop her from shimmying to the ground, hum building in a crescendo as she wraps the tips of her fingers around the flower’s stem, and—

“Hey Annie.” That _voice_.

“_Bah_!”

She plucks the wildflower straight from its spot <strike>how _dare_ he interrupt</strike> while the hair along her arms rise in response. A petal falls as a result of the impact, slowly drifts to the floor<strike> and Annette feels her soul go with it. </strike>

Closing her eyes, Annette braces herself for the worst. Her shoulders hunch as she raises herself from her previous position, does this at a slow pace, not ready to face him quite just yet.

But before she knows it, she’s looking at her other half. The man whose hair and eye color are reflected by her own. Where her eyes were blue, his was red, and where her hair was red, his were blue.

Sapphire meets amber.

“Some things just don’t change, do they?” He smirks and she smiles.

: : :

Later that week, after one of the many war council meetings, Annette tries to distract herself from any idle thoughts about the upcoming battle.

There’s a stray cat that loiters around the dormitory sometimes. It has ochre eyes and black fur that turns almost blue beneath the moonlight, and is so thin, that jagged ridges peek through its flanks. It’s a feral thing, lithe and untamed, reminds her less of a cat and more of a lion <strike>and a little of someone else she knows.</strike>

When she walks close by, she hears a satisfied purr thrum from the back of its throat as the cat licks itself clean. She can see the velvety pink of its tongue drag across the expanse of its dark skin like a grey cloud drifting past the night sky. Something about its calm disposition draws her towards it.

At first, the cat doesn’t seem to notice her, or if it did, then it doesn’t seem bothered. Just goes on with its business without a care in the world, that someone lingering nearby was the least of its problems. So Annette moves closer to it in hopes of possibly petting it.

<strike>It couldn’t hurt to try. </strike>

She outstretches a hand over its head, in the valley between its ears. Lowers it softly, gently onto its skull. And it flinches under her touch.

The cat jumps back on all four paws, alarmed and alert, its fight or flight instinct kicking in. Tawny eyes widen at the sight of her hand, wary of its next move. Then the feline sniffs Annette with caution, ears drawn back as though it isn’t sure what to make of her.

Annette stays still, not wanting to spook it. Its whiskers shift with each sniff, and she can’t suppress the smile from forming on her face. It was simply too cute.

After sniffing out the danger, the little lion rubs itself against her hand. It moves under her touch, arching its back with want. She does her best to scratch where it wants, from behind the ears to beneath the chin to its arched, boney back. <strike>Makes her wonder how it would feel running her fingers through _his_ hair</strike> Makes her wonder what goes through its tiny head as she does this.

She becomes absentminded in her actions the longer she pets. She can’t bring herself to stop, not when it looks so calm and content while it purrs. Though, she is aware enough to hear approaching footsteps coming from behind, and the notion makes her pause.

“Ah,” Felix muses aloud, hand on hip. Annette turns around, eyes on him. “Looks like you tamed the beast. How’d you do it? By singing?”

Annette chuckles at his lame attempt to joke as she resumes petting. “Seems like someone’s jealous.”

He scoffs. “Me? Jealous? Please.” She doesn’t have to look to know he’s crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “I hear you sing enough.”

“Yet you always come back for more,” she teases lightly and can practically hear him scowl.

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t,” Felix counters rather stubbornly, “I just so happen to stumble upon you in those moments of song.”

Now _that_ makes Annette laugh. Not just some half-hearted snicker, but a full-blown, belly-grabbing laugh. <strike>Was he ever this quaint?</strike> And the noise spooks the cat enough to make it scratch her. Raw, clean and cut.

“_Ah—hah_, sounds like an excuse to me.”

He groans, missing her sound of distress, and then tries to change the subject. “What’s its name?”

Annette shakes her head. “I don’t think I should name it.” Blood drips down her hand like a crossed star.

“Why not?”

A small, wistful smile graces her lips. “Because mama always said to never set your heart on a wild thing.”

: : :

At Gronder Field, Annette and Felix fight side by side.

<strike>She loves it</strike> She loathes it. As someone who excels as a warlock and has experience in battle, Annette knows she is more than capable of handling herself. Just because she was small didn’t make her weak. If Annette despises anything, it was not being good enough.

But Felix insisted on making her his adjutant, said that he’d never forgive himself if he lost sight of her. <strike>That made her heart flutter like a hummingbird in her rib cage </strike>After hearing how helpless he sounded from admitting that, she agreed.

<strike>She just hoped she was enough. </strike>

The two fell into a rhythm as they fought off one opponent after another. Annette would cast fire and lightening towards any foes from a distance, while Felix would cut down anyone who got too close. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with.

For some time, they stay like this. Trapped in their own dance of damnation. It was steady and rhythmic.

Until Felix takes a javelin to the side.

It happens out of nowhere. Annette bites down on her lip, cursing herself for missing a distant cavalier. <strike>Damn it!</strike> The sharpest gust of wind she can conjure slices the horseman in half.

When she turns back around, Felix wrenches the weapon from his side like he didn’t know how to do anything else, like it was nothing. The injury seemed shallow enough for him to keep going. <strike>Still, she wants to hurry over to his side and close it up using what little white magic she knows.</strike>

However, something else happens. Something foul and fierce. 

A brigand runs up behind Felix and pulls on his long, blue hair. The swordsman stumbles back, wincing, from the pain or the pull, she doesn’t know. It almost happens in slow motion; the way Felix falls into the hands of the enemy. <strike>Inevitable.</strike>

The man draws his axe high, so far above his head, the blade catches the light. It glares at Annette in mockery, reminding her all too well that she wasn’t enough. She stays frozen to the spot as she watches Felix struggle to pry loose from his hold.

Though, the cornered swordsman has a card or two up his sleeve. Where Annette was weak, he made up for being strong. <strike>This she should’ve known.</strike> He grabs a dagger hidden beneath the sheathes on his belt and moves to get a better angle of his target. The brigand grunts in response, though doesn’t make a move to release Felix.

But nothing could stop Felix from what he was about to do next.

He cuts his _hair_. Not the hand which drew him back nor the arm which the weapon held. No, Felix doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he slices through his lengthy, navy locks.

The action causes the brigand to stagger back in shock. Tousles of hair rain down from the impact and onto his face, and Felix uses the distraction to his advantage by sticking it to him. His Crest glows faint. A blade to the gut. <strike></strike>

Then he faints.

: : :

In the infirmary, Annette places a bouquet of gladiolus on the table by his bedside. She’s quiet when she does this, much like the bedridden boy beside her. Felix doesn’t move, doesn’t say a single word.

Although his injury wasn’t fatal, Mercedes demanded that he take bedrest, knowing full-well that he’d reopen his wound by training. Not only would he push himself harder because he fainted on the battlefield of all places<strike> oh no it certainly wasn’t that </strike>but because his father died.

Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius, the great shield of Faerghus, has passed on. Had done it in the same noble fashion as Glenn. <strike>Did it like a true knight</strike> Did it to protect what little humanity was left in Dimitri.

Annette knows if she were to say anything along the lines of knighthood and chivalry surrounding his father’s death, Felix might cut her down the same way he did an enemy. She didn’t want to push his buttons out of both fear and respect for his loss <strike>even though Sylvain and Ingrid could get away with it. </strike>Still, she wants to be here for him.

With his new haircut, Felix looks smaller in a way. More fragile. As though shaving off several inches of his hair also split his intensity in half.

The bangs were still there, though. They covered his right eye like Dimitri’s eye-patch. Thick and unruly. How ironic it was to see Felix become the very person he despised.

He wears somewhat of a blank expression across his face while he sits there, hunched back and staring at the edge of the bed. Annette feels the need to do _something_, not just stand there doing nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

The words had been on her mind for some time. They were a double-edged sword which slice through the silence. One for the scar and the other for his father. And although Annette regrets saying anything at all, the damage had already been done because Felix growls. Deep and angry.

He swipes his hand at the vase in haste. The collision causes the pottery to fly towards the wall. Upon impact, it shatters to pieces <strike>like their trust.</strike> A shard cuts Annette’s cheek. Draws blood like a teardrop. Flowers have fallen on the floor. Petals scattered like her mind. 

His breathing is harsh and ragged, teeth clenched. Sharp like fangs. Wild, almost.

Annette thinks of the cat.

: : :

Several days later, when Annette memorizes some choir hymnals in the candlelight of her room, there is a knock at her door. Soft, but with a sense of urgency

Her brows furrow in confusion, wondering who could possibly be up and wanting to see her at this hour. It must be some time past midnight because the world outside is impossibly dark. She smooths out her nightgown as she walks to the door, not wanting to come off as improper to her guest, whoever they may be.

Then taking a deep breath, she opens it.

It’s Felix.

In the flesh. Looking at her with melted amber eyes that she almost mistakes for honey. His short hair is disheveled, as though he’d just gotten out of bed. The same could be said of his clothes and even the absent look on his face. He looks out of his element.

<strike>So the lion has been released</strike> So he’s off of bedrest now, she thinks.

Annette covers half of her body with the door while the rest stands in the parted space between the doorframe. <strike>Hesitant, almost afraid.</strike> Her left cheek, the side that had been scratched in the infirmary, scrapes against the edge of the wood. The rough touch makes the irritated skin around the area awkwardly tingle. She winces under the slight pain.

Felix softens at the sight. Seemingly weak in the knee. On the brink of collapse.

“I’m sorry for lashing out at you.” he whispers under his breath, not one for apologies, much less being the one apologizing. “It wasn’t fair to you.”

She doesn’t know what to say. “No, <strike>you’re right</strike> you’re fine Felix, I shouldn’t have bothered you with any of my silly sentiments. I knew you wanted to be alone.”

He shakes his head. “But that doesn’t excuse me from hurting you,” he refutes while she adjusts her cheek to a more comfortable position. By doing this, the scratch was exposed to his near remorseful gaze. His jaw goes slack. “Did I…do that to you?”

Annette stiffens. He looks so lost, so helpless, so _defeated_. <strike>What was she supposed to say to that?</strike> “<strike>Yes </strike>No, it was the cat.” A white lie hidden in plain sight.

But Felix sees right through the bullshit.

He laughs, loudly, bitterly. Shoulders shake in slight delirium. A hand fists the bangs above his head as though it’d help him get a grip. “Well damn.” He stares at the ground in disbelief, hand loosening its hold on his hair. “I’m no better than that cat and I’m sure as hell getting worse than the boar.”

Though Annette sees something else entirely. “I disagree. You’re a wild thing.”

: : :

It’s strange, the way it happens. Anette and Felix become closer after that.

After meetings, they tend to pet the cat. After fights, they pick flowers. Annette keeps them pressed between the pages of a book and those cherished moments pressed between the pages of her mind. For memories<strike> post-war,</strike> she reasons.

With every battle, their bond blooms. It reminds her of the first flower she picked in that sunlit spot she found in the greenhouse. Living, despite the war going on around it.

<strike>Loving him was no different than living.</strike>

One was rarely seen without the other, and her name was associated with his just as his name was tightly knit with hers. It was platonic <strike>to him,</strike> and at the time, none of them needed more from the other. It felt perfect as it was, with its familiar closeness and the silent gazes that spoke more than words, an understanding that others seemed to notice if only they looked long enough.

Anette doesn’t know what it is, can’t find the words for it like her songs. There _are_ no words for it. It just _is_. But there’s a silent understanding humming low in the depths of her mind, beneath the withheld words of her timid feelings.

The sensation reels her mind, especially when he asks her to sing for him one evening.

“Be a lamb and sing for me?” he pleas in the lowest tone he has ever spoken in, leaning back against his palms which were propped against the wooden planks of the dock. He is wearing a plain shirt with his pants rolled to the knees and he looks so soft, she wonders how she ever believed, even for a second, that he could be anything but kind.

Roses bloom under the skin of her cheeks, his words the sun. “What kind of lion asks something of that?” she tries to tease as her heart stutters. <strike>So much for coming to the pond to cool off.</strike>

“Hmm,” he pauses to think, face just as pink, “a captive one?”

And it was then Annette knew why hearts were kept in a cage.

: : :

Annette was looking for him. Having lost him at some point during the battle, she had no choice but to carry on.

This was _war_.

It feels like that night they took out the bandits’ nest. Because of his ponytail, she was able to track him down, as though it had been a blue string attaching him to her. This time, though, there was nothing she had to go by to find him afterward.

Fort Merceus was colossal. A stronghold of astonishing magnitude with a town packed between its thick walls for safety. And, in this situation, a labyrinth all on its own. <strike>Nobody told her this.</strike>

And Annette, for the _life_ of her, could not locate Felix. She didn’t even know where to _begin_. When the fighting ceded, she was still near the entrance of the fort, because being a magic user meant your power can deplete at any given moment, so she had to stay near an escape route in case things took a turn for the worse. 

But Felix went into the heart of the danger at Dimitri’s request, further into the maze that was the city. Sylvain, Ingrid and Ashe were with him, which eased her doubts a bit. Dedue had to retreat during the battle after getting infected with Mire B. 

She and Mercedes decide to take it upon themselves to search for any survivors within the keep, without having to outright admit that they abandoned their post just to find their friends.

The drawbridge was huge and foreboding as the bishop and warlock step across its groaning beams. <strike>How much pain it must’ve been in, being kept together by iron and chained to stone.</strike> Annette walked with caution, because it had been trampled on so much throughout the skirmish, she thought it would break.

Though the bridge lay sturdy and led them into what was left of the fort.

The town was painted red.

Bodies litter the streets like trampled flowers, bloodied and bruised and covered in dirt. Some wore blue while others wore red. The greatest battles have always been a clash of opposites: dark versus light, good versus evil, red versus blue.

<strike>Oh goddess, please don’t let one of these be his. </strike>

Pillars of smoke rise from abandoned buildings and atop watch towers. Limbs from the earth’s shadow ready to swallow the city in the darkness whole. <strike>Annette wishes one of them was a safety signal that could lead her to Felix instead </strike>The place was intimidating.

It’s quiet as they walk through Fort Merceus. The only thing louder than her thoughts are the flames. Burning so bright, so red, they almost turn blue. For <strike>Dimitri’s</strike> the Kingdom’s cause.

The women take a left, making their way towards the northeastern part of the fort. Several Faerghus soldiers are regrouping in small numbers, and they stop to bow towards Annette and Mercedes to thank them for their service, which the two return in kind. Annette even takes the opportunity to ask if any of them knew where Dimitri and company had gone.

“I don’t know, m’lady, the Death Knight led them in for a chase.”

At that, Annette’s blood runs cold and she’s running before the soldier has the chance to finish.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. Just goes wherever her feet take her. Can’t give it much thought when her <strike>heart </strike>mind is somewhere else. Can only hope the end leads her to him.

Annette searches with anxious eyes. <strike>All the buildings look the same, why does everything look the same?</strike> The world fades out to black and white.

Right then left then straight <strike>and oh my, was that Sylvain ahead? </strike>But that could only mean…

<strike>Gods, where _is_ he?</strike>

Felix, Felix, Felix…

“Annie!”

Her head snaps in the direction of the voice. The one which has been distracting her in the same way hers apparently distracts him. A sound so rough and mellow.

There he was.

<strike>The love of her life</strike> Felix Hugo Fraldarius.

He runs to her side with a flower in hand, and her legs are shaking—half from overuse, half from the sight of him. He was here. He was breathing. He was _alive_. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Before she can even take two steps, he’s there, closing the distance between them. He drops the flower in favor of cradling her face, and his thumbs brush over her cheekbones with such love, her heart aches.

Her fingers tangle in the tufts behind his head<strike> damn, she didn’t think she’d come to adore his short hair the way she does now </strike>and it makes their foreheads collide. This was out of reassurance, relieved that they weren’t seeing ghosts.

His touch was breaching her walls. Though she can’t give him her heart without reprieve.

“<strike>I love you</strike> I can’t live without you,” he breaks.

And they kiss.

: : :

Later that night, at the war council, Annette and Felix stand side by side near the discussion table.

She is trying so hard to listen as Dimitri recounts their victory and their next course of action. <strike>But she’s just so _close_ to Felix</strike> But it was impossible to do when her thoughts were elsewhere.

Her lips still tingle from the kiss.

She hasn’t been kissed before, never done it in her life. But with him, it’s easy. Just the slow pressure of lips against lips, the drag of tongue against tongue, the scrape of teeth against teeth. Kissing Felix was a tiny, trembling thing, like holding something indescribably precious and fragile in their hands that might crack if pressed a little too hard.

It felt a whole lot like coming home. <strike>She wonders when she began to feel at home with him more than the house she grew up in.</strike>

In the kiss, she could taste the possibility of everything that was to come. She could see herself holding his hand after the war, could see herself sitting along the dock, at his side, as she sings new songs. She could see him <strike>and only him</strike> smiling in the crowd as she stands on stage for her debut as a singer in a world that knows only peace. She could see them waking up together in bed after their two halves become one.

Her fingertips brush against her bottom lip insentiently, press along the skin similar to the way his mouth did earlier during the kiss, as though his lips were as familiar as her own.

Though when she catches on to the act, she’s quick to shove them back down, for fear of drawing attention to herself. And Felix is swift to catch her falling hand. Felix, a man of action and not word, gives it a squeeze.

: : :

Afterwards, the couple walks back to their respective tents in silence.

This impending sense of doom follows them around without a shadow of doubt. Hangs over their heads like rainclouds. If the meeting confirmed one thing, it was this: tomorrow was do or die.

The end was in sight.

And so was her tent.

Annette did not want to part from Felix with the war on her mind. She wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing that tomorrow could be their last. There was something about being at death’s door that finally makes people want to step back and live.

The stars flicker above with an intensity she has never seen before, not even when it was wintertime back in Faerghus. It is as if the night veil lifted to show her some certain truth.

A star crosses overhead. Burning and stirring as it stills in the sky while barely moving in her eyes. And just like that, it leaves.

Annette grabs his wrist for good measure. “Stay with me,” she softly pleads.

Felix nods, wordlessly, knowingly, then follows her into the tent.

: : :

He _promised_.

He promised her that he’d be safe. He promised her that he’d be careful. He promised her that he’d be willing and able.

<strike>But promises are made to be broken. </strike>

He’s on his knees.

Blood drips from the corner of his mouth and down the side of his face. His head was face down; forehead pressed against the flat edge of his blade. Wrapped around the handle were his hands, but even before she places her own over them, Annette knows they’re shaking. Going cold.

She’s on her knees.

Her hands wrap around his own, feels the tremor of his anxiety under her very palm. She presses her forehead to her hands for the want of sending him strength. <strike>It was her turn to return the favor</strike> Annette had to be strong for them both.

If anyone were to see the pair from a distance, it’d look like they were a mirror of one another. Two people deeply rooted at the soul.

Only, the moment is short lived because an enemy tries to take them by surprise. But even like this, Felix still has his survival instincts—sharp and intact.

Annette falls back as he hastily grabs the sword. That infamous scowl is on his face. Teeth gritted and bared. He looks wild.

His eyes are cat-like as he watches the assassin stumble back. A predator bating its time in high grass, waiting for the enemy to fall prey. Though his impatience has him uppercutting with a battlecry.

Then he collapses.

She’s quick to catch him, but he’s too heavy and her knees buckle under his weight. He lies on the tiled floor of the imperial palace and looks up at her, panting. His gaze is hazy, unfocused.

Annette knows he is going to die long before she looks at the wound. “I can’t…” she has no words. They choke somewhere in her throat, as though fate shoved down all the flower petals they collected together in mock. “I need to get Mercedes.”

“Too late,” Felix croaks. There is blood dribbling between his parted lips. When he laces her fingers with his own, they’re cold, his grip weak.

“But you’re dying,” Annette weeps. None of this feels real.

_ <strike>Stop this. </strike> _

“My family must be cursed…” he murmurs, voice unrecognizable. Lost its edge. “…because Glenn died, then my dad. Now…me.”

<strike>Just yesterday they were fine. </strike>

“Felix…” his fingers slip from her hold. Her breathing shallows while his slows.

_ <strike>No, no, no—</strike> _

“Glenn…take me.”

And with that, Felix Hugo Fraldarius was gone.

: : :

Mama did not tell her it would hurt like this. She did not warn her about the heartbreak one experiences with friends. A lover, even.

_ <strike>Where are the songs</strike> _ <strike>, Annette pleas. </strike>

She could not find the words or come up with the tune dedicated to the grief one falls into when someone leaves. Feels like her chest has been wrung.

But Felix was more than that. He was a partner, a companion. The lion to her lamb.

No longer will she be seeing the cat. No longer will she collect flowers. They remind her too much of him.

She remembers the first time he picked her a flower. It was a blue one that smelled of home after rain, what it felt like to be in his bittersweet company. Annette remembers this fondly because he did it in such a ruthless manner, with a half-smile, half-scowl.

Maybe his death was his own doing. Maybe Felix was a flower picked early from the patch. How cruel it was to take the wildest and prettiest one away. <strike>She should’ve pressed him into her book while she could.</strike>

All that remains are those dead flowers and memory. Deeply rooted in her mind, forever bloomed in her chest. All too much alive. So she closes her eyes and prays.

Wild things have a way of leaving.


End file.
